


To the Victor

by madi_solo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, F/M, Season/Series 04, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9166825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madi_solo/pseuds/madi_solo
Summary: Sherlock secretly attends the burial of Mary Watson.





	

It was a gray, bleak morning, not unlike most mornings in London, but there was something that made this one worse—far worse—and more unbearable than any other. Concealing himself amidst the deep shadows cast by the church and its towering steeple, Sherlock watched from afar as a simple wooden coffin was lowered into the earth. A hole in the ground. An unworthy resting place for Mary Watson.  
She should not be in there. She had a husband, a daughter, and an undying zest for life, especially for the realms of danger and adventure. Her death was unnecessary, a consequence of his own selfish, childish desire to be validated, to be victorious. It was he that had utterly broken Vivienne Norbury, he that had brought her deepest aspiration to the surface: to matter. To affect change in the world and cause ripples in the water.  
Sherlock swallowed, standing straight and still, his angular features stone cold and his facial muscles drawn tight. Their backs were turned to him—John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Molly was gently bouncing Rosie in her arms, but the infant was inconsolable. John was the first to allow a handful of dirt to slide between his fingers and strike the surface of the coffin with a barely perceptible thud. The others followed suit, each taking their own turn.  
When they were finished, the little crowd slowly began to disperse. It was painfully clear to all that John wanted to be alone, so Lestrade left first. Then Molly turned to go, but her keen brown eyes detected a lingering, unmistakable silhouette that the detective inspector had overlooked. She stopped and paused, obviously considering her options, and Sherlock stiffened. Lips parting, he stared back at her a moment before swiftly departing the cemetery, vanishing around the nearest corner and passing by the old church. His long black coat flapped behind him as he drifted along like a restless ghost, retreating from reality and withdrawing into himself, sinking deeper into the imprisoning confines of his own mind.  
“Sherlock!”  
He kept going, pretending not to hear.  
“Sherlock Holmes! You stop and look at me right now!”  
Despite every excuse that was propelled to the forefront of his thoughts in that instant, despite his burning desire to flee, he was compelled to halt by the stern, commanding voice of Molly Hooper. Something beyond his conscious will made him turn and face her, made him meet her piercing gaze. Her gray coat was buttoned up to her throat, her chestnut hair tied back from her face. She was no longer carrying Rosie, so he could only assume that she had delivered the child into the welcoming arms of Mrs. Hudson before pursuing him.  
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Molly demanded, voice trembling. “What happened? John won’t do so much as mention your name, and you couldn’t even be bothered to come to Mary’s funeral.”  
He stood there for a long moment, clenching and unclenching his fingers. ”I am not welcome,” he said finally.  
“Why not?” she pressed.  
“Because it’s my fault!” he burst, and she flinched. He had not meant to startle her, had not meant for the anger and frustration welling up inside him to erupt from his throat, and Sherlock lowered his head. “All of it,” he added quietly.  
Molly stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as words would come but she would decide against them. She did not know what to say, how to proceed, and before she could make up her mind, he turned his back on her and walked away. She did nothing to stop him this time, watching as he drew farther and farther away from her, becoming part of the city, part of the machine whose gears never stopped turning—not even for Mary Watson.


End file.
